Masks and Shadows: Unlikely Chances
by Sushi-san85
Summary: Pharaun Mizzrym is back from the dead! Bent on revenge or survival, not even he knows. With no allies and far too many enemies, the former master of Sorcere must depend on the most unlikely people to survive. Full summary inside!


_**Summary: Pharaun Mizzrym is back from the dead! Bent on revenge or survival, not even he knows. With no allies and far too many enemies, the former master of Sorcere must depend on the most unlikely people to survive. Can he thrive in a world that scorns him, or will he succumb to the dangers?**_

_**Disclaimer: Pharaun Mizzrym and any other characters that you recognise from War of the Spider Queen, various rulebooks and Wizard's homepage are the property of Wizards of the Coast and their respective authors. Any OCs that you don't recognise are mine. This is a non-profit fan fiction written for my own amusement.**_

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Chapter 1: Resurrection

Death. He knew it well. Being without a physical body prevented him from experiencing pain, hunger or thirst. He was beyond the basic needs of the flesh, beyond ambitions and desires that brought ruin to many a mortal. As such, Pharaun Mizzrym no longer feared death. Not when all it brought was no feeling whatsoever. No, what he feared was the afterlife.

The yochlol, a powerful servant of the Spider Queen Lloth, goddess of the drow, goddess of _his_ people, stood before him once again, with that same wicked gleam in its bulbous eyes. Only clerics could become yochlols, and only females could become clerics. Which was just as well, Pharaun thought, as his eyes took in the hideous creature. Its body was an amorphous mass that resembled melted candle wax, with tentacles for arms and a row of sharp teeth being the only telltale sign of a mouth. The last thing he'd want was to end up looking like _that_. A flicker of annoyance in the creature's eyes told him that the yochlol's telepathic powers had picked right up on those thoughts. Despite the punishment that he knew would await him, Pharaun couldn't help but smile. How many times hadn't she tortured him already anyway? This time would be no different.

He endured this torture session as well, just as he had endured all the others, just as he had endured the ones in life, back in the city of Menzoberranzan, at the hands of the priestesses. _Worthless male. You believe yourself equal to a female? Don't be a fool_. The yochlol reminded him of his last moments of life, playing it through his mind over and over again. It was taunting him, showing him an endless army of spiders eating him alive. He shuddered involuntarily. Some wounds had yet to heal. The image of Quenthel Baenre, high priestess of Lloth, was shown to him, comfortable in her role as mistress of Arach-Tinilith, the school of clerics and with all the honours that the Spider Queen had bestowed upon her. Pharaun replied by twisting the mental image into that of a yochlol, ugly and hideous, favoured by spiders only, for what male in their right mind would want to couple with _that_? In retaliation, the yochlol responded by sending hundreds of embarrassing and humiliating memories that Pharaun had buried long ago, memories that had never truly healed. He grimaced and the yochlol laughed, a dry, rasping sound that resembled the sound of a strange bird, but echoed with a horror beyond imagining. This torment went on indefinitely, as neither of the two had a limited life span and mental torture was a speciality to a demon servant.

Somewhere between the yochlol's taunts, his life flashing before his eyes the umpteenth time and the mental rape, Pharaun felt the shackles chaining him to the wall loosen. He was so tired and weak that he didn't register what was happening at first, but then a shriek of surprise and disbelief came from the yochlol. The drow looked up, but he saw nothing. Well, except the yochlol whose eyes held an equal amount of terror and rage in them. Despite that image and the knowledge that anything a demon servant of Lloth feared was probably something he should fear as well, Pharaun felt nothing. In fact, it seemed as if the yochlol was growing smaller and more distant. He could no longer feel the shackles around his wrists and feet, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say he was… flying? It took him a moment, but when he saw the Demonweb Pits beneath him, he realised that he really _was_ flying. He saw no-one carrying him, nor did he notice anyone trying to stop his flight. Even so, he could still feel a pull towards something, something consisting of bright light, the bane of all Underdark-dwelling drow. Pharaun flinched and looked away, but was dragged towards it regardless. There was a moment when he was bathed in the purest of light, and it burned his eyes, a knot forming in his stomach. There seemed to be a disruption, albeit a temporary one, in the very existence of the world around him, and then he was thrown into oblivion.

The first sensation he had was of pain. Then came the cold creeping up on him, causing his entire body to shiver involuntarily from the sensation. It stung in ways he'd never thought cold could be able to, save in the case of powerful spells. There was no sign of a wizard nearby, however, and being dead, he was immune to most spells anyhow. He was also supposed to be unaffected by changes in temperature. A few more seconds passed until the new and blasphemous idea that he was no longer dead settled in his mind and started nagging at him. Of course he was dead, who in their right mind would want to resurrect him? Lloth very much enjoyed having him tortured in the Demonweb Pits, and he didn't know any clerics not of the Spider Queen. After infiltrating and putting an end to the work of a group of Vhaeraunite drow in Menzoberranzan, he could rule out Vhaeraun as a possible candidate as well.

It was also painfully bright. Being accustomed to the Underdark, a network of caverns beneath the surface world where, naturally, the sun couldn't reach, Pharaun could only blink, his eyes stinging and watering over from the pain. It was blatantly obvious to the wizard now – he was alive. A pained groan escaped his lips as he rolled over, only to find himself lying in a crunchy, white substance that gave way to his body weight and froze his body. His back was warm where the light hit him, but a strong wind picked up and eradicated any hope of thawing up.

Shouts sounded, of males and females, somewhere far away. Or perhaps they were closer than he suspected, just that his hearing was impaired. In such bright light, many drow were hindered greatly, and their senses grew dull. He had heard tales of drow who lost their innate powers of levitation and the ability to detect magical dweomers and know the hearts and minds of the people around them, even lost some of their natural resilience towards spells. Fear clutched at his heart, not because he was now in a completely foreign world with possible dangers, but because he'd just been resurrected and was at the mercy of surfacers. Surfacers, he'd heard, were extremely intolerant of drow, and would most likely kill him. Being dead again, he'd have to suffer more torment at the tentacles of the yochlol. Gritting his teeth, Pharaun pushed himself up on his arms and legs, but found himself incapable of moving. He collapsed, his breath coming out in short rasps, as he tried in vain to gather enough strength to just get up. Why did resurrection always have to weaken a person?

The voices were coming closer and he could make out actual words, but what those words meant, he had no idea. It all sounded like a string of gibberish to him. Looking up, he found that the blindness brought on by the light of the sun had somewhat diminished, and he saw three, four, maybe even five shapes making their way towards him. They were talking to each other, pointing at him, their voices harsh and loud. Afraid. Normally, Pharaun would have relished the thought of people being afraid of him, but in this case it would only lead to his death.

"Wait," he began in Common, a simplified trade language that based its roots off of Chondathan, one that served for simple negotiations rather than a full, drawn-out conversation. It would have to do, however, as any other surface language was unknown to him. "I'm not…" he searched for the right word, "a bad person." Okay, that was a blatant lie.

"My spells tell differently, drow," replied a male in perfect High Drow, the language spoken by drow nobles. Pharaun wasn't one who expected a human to know said language, so he concluded that whoever was speaking had cast a translation spell. "Or is your Common simply limited?"

Despite the knowledge that these humans would most likely kill him, Pharaun couldn't quite help himself. "Your brain is what's limited." Someone kicked him in the groin, and hard. The drow fought back a groan, the only sign of his pain being his eyebrow twitching. Compared to a matron mother, this guy was an amateur. Not that the insult was his finest, but he still felt a small satisfaction at having angered the man. "Even if I'm not a prime example of celestial virtue, it should be blatantly obvious that whatever crime my people have committed isn't something I can be blamed for. I'm blinded by that glowing ball of fire you surfacers love so much, I'm naked and I've got no weapons, no spellbook and no spell components on my person. In other words, I'm no threat to you."

"You're easy pickings, that's what," replied a second voice, this one deeper and more gruff, "and a drow is a drow. Villagers will pay much for the chance of a public execution."

Things hadn't changed much, in other words. Pharaun had been brought back to life only with the prospect of having to die again. The Queen of Spiders had to be laughing hard from the irony of the situation. Great, he'd been resurrected for the sole purpose of entertaining his demented spider goddess.

A female said something to the others that Pharaun couldn't even begin to understand. "Silence, woman! This is a drow, and that alone makes him guilty! We hired you to track these bastards down, not question us." She didn't say anything else, but there was a level of bitterness in the air that couldn't be quenched. Something about it seemed awfully familiar to the drow wizard, and he was unsure how to deal with it. A few seconds passed until the female said something else. The male let out a sound of disapproval, but muttered something along the line of "do as you wish", obviously not caring either way.

Next thing he knew, the female was by his side, her voice soothing and calm as she wrapped him up in something. He was free of the cold, white substance, and then he heard her mutter something, her hand still on his back, and he was no longer cold. Her shadow came to cover his eyes for a moment, and he found himself looking up at an unruly mass of black hair held up at the back of her head as best the female could manage it, green, almond-shaped eyes, pale skin, a thin nose, pointed ears and a scar on her right cheek. A faerie elf? Pharaun hissed menacingly, which had a poor effect seeing as he was naked and wrapped up in a blanket, and pulled away. The light hit his eyes again and his hiss became a yelp of pain.

She looked at him oddly before reaching for him. He glared and tried to roll away, but her hand caught onto the fabric of the blanket and held him in place. Just as well, he came to realise, as he felt no ground beneath one half of his back. Turning his head, he found he was actually a few inches away from falling off a cliffside and to his death. His eyes went back to this strange faerie elf who didn't seem to hate him, but had actually saved his life. That, and she'd used a spell to warm him. Pharaun was unsure what to do with this new piece of information. Ever since childhood he'd been told about the evil faeries, his surface cousins, and all the horrible things they'd do to a drow. Pharaun was no fool – he knew his own people were just as willing to commit such atrocities to their enemies – but the indoctrination ran deep and wasn't simply waved aside because of a few niceties.

Regardless, it seemed he'd die one way or another – falling off a cliff or being executed by humans. Still, if this faerie elf didn't hate him, she might be his ticket out of this situation. Not that he was about to trust a faerie – no drow would ever be so foolish as to trust anyone, even members of their own race – but Pharaun was a practical drow, and it wasn't as if he had anything to lose. He calmed down, allowed her to pull him back to safe ground and started observing the people around him as best he could. Furthermore, he took care to make it look as if he'd surrendered himself, when in truth, he was playing through his mind the events that would free him from these people. There were two males, both heavily armed and dressed in chainmail. Both carried themselves like warriors. Another female was there too, a human with a much bigger and nastier scar than the one the elven female had. She looked at him as if she held him personally responsible for that scar. Other than that, it was just him and the faerie elf.

He felt something being put on his feet next, and he instinctively pulled back, until he realised that the faerie was putting boots on his feet. They were too big, but he wasn't about to object. Next, she was by his side again, urging him to get up. Pharaun obeyed, pain shooting through his abdomen from where one of the males had kicked him. He doubled over from the pain and would have fallen back to the ground if the faerie hadn't caught him. There was suddenly a lot of physical contact between them, which wasn't necessarily something Pharaun would consider a bad thing, except for the fact that she was a faerie. He allowed her to straighten him up before he put his plan into action. Even without his spellbook and spell components, he was still a force to be reckoned with.

First, he shoved his elbow into the faerie's ribs as hard as he could. Pharaun's physical strength wasn't much, just about average, really, but he connected well. Her eyes grew wide with surprise and the wind was knocked out of her. Pharaun didn't waste any time as her knees buckled under her, summoning his innate power of faerie fire and watching as purple flames started dancing along the skin of one of the males. It wasn't that faerie fire was dangerous, or anything, it simply highlighted a creature and countered certain illusions. Some people were highly suspicious of magic, however, and this male human was no exception. He yelped in surprise, believing the purple flames to be real and started beating away at them.

Next, Pharaun summoned another of his innate powers, this being a globe of darkness, and targeted the human female. She called out in surprise and started flailing her arms around helplessly, no doubt thinking that the ground had opened up and swallowed her. Pharaun would have grinned if not for the battle cry that sounded, and he turned his head to see the last male running towards him with his sword drawn. A third power was summoned, this being lights that danced around in his hand. The warrior hesitated for a moment, but that moment was all the drow needed. He made a move as to throw the lights at the human who yelped and moved his hands up to protect his head. The lights dissipated, as they were completely harmless anyway, and Pharaun made to summon another power he'd gained from being a master of Sorcere. This power was not a part of his drow heritage, but rather something he'd gained from extensive magical study. It would summon a shimmering, transparent doorway through which he could escape.

Nothing happened. Pharaun couldn't, for the life of him, remember how to do it. He tried again, and yet the method wouldn't appear in his mind. Had the tortures he endured in the Demonweb Pits reduced him that much? He'd heard that those recently resurrected were always a bit weaker afterwards, but he shouldn't be _that_ weak. "Sorcerous dog!" The voice of a male sobered him up, making him realise that one of the humans had seen through his trick. That was a lot quicker than he'd ever thought a human would realise anything. Hoping against all hope that he still possessed his power of levitation, Pharaun focused, was pleased when he realised he still possessed _that_ power, and floated off the ground and into a copse of some tall plants with strange colours.

He didn't get very far, however, as a sharp pain shot through his leg and caused him to twitch involuntarily as the pain struck a nerve. A numbing sensation came over him next, starting in his leg where the pain was and spreading through his body like wildfire through a field. The poison was so effective that, already, he could no longer feel the pain in his leg. He reached down and grabbed a hold of a wooden shaft that he realised belonged to an arrow, but he wasn't strong enough to pull it out. His desperate yanking had no effect on pulling the missile out, and soon enough, his entire right side grew numb, rendering his arm useless. Pharaun saw no immediate solution to this problem, and the only powers he had left served only to detect magical dweomers and know the hearts and minds of the people around him. Bereft of spells, spell components, a spellbook and his hard-earned magical powers, there was no way out for him. How Quenthel would laugh at his pitiable state should she see him now. All Pharaun could manage was an angry scowl upon remembering that name, for the poison had numbed his left side as well and the blanket fell off of him. Then darkness claimed him.

* * *

Elisabeth looked up at the drow suspended in the air, his head dropped and his arms and legs hanging limply, and sighed. The half-elf then climbed the tree, glad that he was so close to it as it would allow her to get him back down easily enough, and grabbed him around his waist. She then pulled him to her and tossed him across her shoulder before jumping back down.

"Is he dead?" asked the human female in her current company. Elisabeth shook her head. "A pity. You should have killed him."

"I believe your exact words for this job was to bring them in to the local magistrate for justice to be visited upon them," the half-elf countered dryly. While she knew it was difficult for anyone who'd suffered a raid – be it at the hands of orcs or drow – to keep a cool head, Elisabeth wanted punishment to come to the right people. A naked, unconscious and unarmed drow lying in the snow at this time of the year was hardly someone she'd suspect of having participated in the murders and other atrocities committed by his brethren in Thundertree.

"They killed the local magistrate," protested the woman bitterly, "but I do see your point. If he's innocent, he doesn't deserve to be punished."

"Thank you," Elisabeth said and offered her a kind smile, "and as for the local magistrate, I sent word to Neverwinter not too long ago. They've agreed to send someone to act as magistrate until this business has been dealt with. An old friend of mine, in fact, and one whose sense of justice I can vouch for." She finished tying up the drow's wrists and then wrapped him back up inside the blanket. Had he just co-operated, she wouldn't have had to do this, but drow were rarely reasonable in her experience. The proud drow was tossed over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried over to her horse, where she practically dumped him on the back of the saddle. She and her companions mounted their horses and turned to Thundertree.

"Who is this friend of yours and how is it that you're so willing to vouch for him?" asked the woman as they kicked the horses into a trot. The clouds were gathering on the sky, promising heavy snows if they didn't hurry.

"_Her_ name is Lady Kristine Aurora Liliana Shadowmoon and she's a paladin," Elisabeth replied, "of Tyr." A look of awe entered the woman's face. "She's also one of my best friends, good in a fight and good with questioning. If anyone will get to the bottom of this, she will."

"What's there to get to the bottom of?" asked one of the men angrily. The riders kept their gaze locked forward, but the half-elf didn't need to look at the man to know that he was bitter and resentful. If things had been done his way, the drow would be dead, regardless of whether he was guilty or not.

"I don't recognise this drow from the group that we chased away from Thundertree," Elisabeth replied, taking care to add the men into the calculation even if their efforts had been minor. Men were touchy that way. "That's not to say he wasn't involved, but their behaviour raised questions, questions that need answers. As does this one's presence."

"Questioning won't bring the dead back," the man muttered, "nor will it undo the damage these bastards did to Thundertree."

"Nothing will," Elisabeth shot back, already tiring of this whiny bunch. She knew they were in pain, a pain she could relate to very well, but that would only serve to cloud their better judgement. They were good people, but even good people could end up doing the wrong thing if they were too driven by their emotions. "We stopped them, however, and Tyr's judgement and a paladin's justice is what awaits them."

While she couldn't see them, what with them riding behind her, she got the distinct feeling that her companions looked quite pleased.

* * *

When Pharaun woke next, it was to the smell of animal excrements, the sound of wailing females and more blinding light. He squinted several times, the initial blindness gradually fading away. The light in this place, wherever it was, was less than where he had been, and he was distinctly warmer than earlier. There was even a body next to his. He shifted his head to see who it was, but his body wouldn't follow. He looked down, seeing ropes tied tightly around his form and pressing his back up against something. Looking up, he saw a large pole.

"Welcome to the makeshift prison in Thundertree," said a sarcastic, male, distinctly elven voice. Again, Pharaun's eyes went to the person next to him and he ended up looking at another drow male. "Technically, it's the Pavilion, the only place where travellers can rest, and it has room for only twelve people." Pharaun tried pulling at the ropes. "They're mostly carpenters, but they've got good ropes here. Even better knots. I've been at them since this morning, but I still can't untie even one."

"Who are you?" demanded the former master of Sorcere. The other drow finally looked at him, finally seeing him for the first time.

"You're not one of us," he pointed out, noticing how Pharaun kept blinking under the light that the rest of them were so accustomed to. A smirk crept along his face. "Oh, but this is an ironic twist of fate. As for my name, it's Durlyn Auzkovyn. What's yours?"

"Pharaun Mizzrym," Pharaun replied, "of House Mizzrym, fifth house of Menzoberranzan."

"Indeed?" Durlyn sounded pleasantly surprised. "Why, I'm tied up to a noble, no less. Did you hear that?" His voice carried across the pavilion, drawing the attention of the other drow tied up there. "We are graced with the presence of a noble, one Pharaun Mizzrym." His voice held just the slightest hint of sarcasm.

There was a moment of silence. "Pharaun Mizzrym? The one who exposed our allies in Menzoberranzan and had them all killed by the matron mothers?" For only the split of a second did the next silence last. "Kill him!"

Durlyn's eyes turned to Pharaun immediately, his mirth now gone, fully replaced by a cruel smile. "A wonderfully ironic twist indeed. It seems Vhaeraun has granted us a gift amidst all this nonsense after all."

Pharaun rolled his eyes. "What, precisely, are you going to do? You're as tied up as I am."

Durlyn's smile grew into a grin, and then he became serious. "Guard! Guard! The female one!" He deliberately spoke in Chondathan, a language quite common among humans but not something drow of the Underdark could as easily learn, and thus, Pharaun couldn't understand him. The door to the tent flapped open and inside came the armed woman Pharaun had seen earlier that day. Outside, he noticed, the sky was dark.

"What is it?" she demanded, keeping her distance and eyeing the room suspiciously. Pharaun was quite surprised that a group of humans had managed to capture that many drow – let alone keep them all tied up in what wasn't even a real prison.

"Some information," Durlyn said, his face dead serious as he nodded at Pharaun. "This one's the mastermind behind our attack. A recent convert, it's why he's squinting so much. Not used to daylight yet. He's a noble, you see, and a wizard, so you should probably gag him." The woman's eyes narrowed, but she did as he suggested. Durlyn cleverly hid his smile as the incensed Pharaun tried in vain to avoid being gagged. Her back was turned for only a few seconds, but in that time Pharaun was afforded the sight of a wicked grin on Durlyn's face. "You should execute him immediately."

"It's not my decision to make," the woman replied, much to Durlyn's disappointment. She didn't look even a bit disappointed with it, which puzzled Durlyn. After the treatment the people of Thundertree had been put through at the hands of the Vhaeraunites, she should be quite eager to take care of business herself, no?

"It was he who ordered our soldier to rape your sister," Durlyn tried, but all that earned him was the pointed end of a blade pressed up underneath his chin.

"If you value your tongue, drow," the woman snarled, "you won't mention my sister again." Durlyn didn't protest, remaining silent until she'd left the pavilion behind.

"The local magistrate was… forced to retire," Durlyn informed Pharaun helpfully, "so they have no-one in charge of the interrogations. No judge. A lawless place, where the people are very angry with us and very eager to take the law into their own hands." His wicked grin returned. "No clerics besides their pathetic acolyte, but you already met him, I believe. He's the only one with a translation spell, and he hates us. You're as stuck in this mess as the rest of us now." He left it at that, knowing that, despite the fact that it didn't show in his face, even the noble was feeling a twinge of fear behind his impeccable mask.

* * *

A big thanks to BluePhoenix21 for proof-reading this chapter and helping me with ideas.


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